The Rightful One
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: Set outside Midgard, post-Avengers. Loki Laufeyson plans revenge against Odin and Asgard for Odin rules it. After getting rid of the muzzle, he travels to the realm of his birth when... This will take us after Ragnarork. Characters belong originally to Marvel Studios, Comics and the Norse Mythology. Loki has to prove to himself he is really fit to be a king. Without Thor's shadow.
1. Prologue

Home.

Except it is not home. Not his home: no more his home. This is where his mo…his foster mother (kind woman if it ever was) lives. It would be home if it was for her. As it is also home for her son and worse home for him… him… It is not home.

When they came back, they went directly to hi…him. He was angry. Affronted. Complaining, He was daring him to show remorse. The liar daring the wronged man to show regrets. The scold prevented the answers he deserved. And it went on and on…

Finally, after being accused and convicted of wilful malicious acts, he was told he would be rehabilitated. His fate was to be immerged in the Pool of Tomorrows.

He was to disappear to start afresh a new life. Somewhere in the Nine Realms. Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life's roots were floating into the Pool. He was going to become nothing, digested by the radiating, pulsating green liquid which filled the liquid expense: his cells, his soul would be digested, transformed and regurgitated as a new life, a new child. Somewhere.

His m… The Queen had pleaded, his br… his victor had gallantly supported the gentle spoken Queen with no avail.

He was warped. The only way to be cured was to dip into the Pool.

That was it. Not only was he the innocent victim of a most cruel abduction, the victim of years of lies and untruths constantly disproven by cruel hard facts… But when at long last… he finally was given to see through the lies, when he had tried so hard to rule as this man who had called him son…

Some men would have weep at the tragedy of his life. Not him: no, not him. On the broken Rainbow Bridge, he had come to the logical conclusion: the man he had called father was just the ultimate master of deceit. Revenge gave him strength. For this man, he had killed his real father. Laufey would be… will be avenged.

Vengeance would be sweet and merciless. Vengeance!

…if he lived long enough to accomplish it. Soon the guards would take him to the room situated at the deep end of the Royal Palace. Meanwhile, somewhere, Frigga and Thor were still pleading with Odin. While he was left alone in his apartment. With a Midgard muzzle on his face and his magical powers removed. Just like he was no more important. The main character of this drama rejected to the shadows.

No tears. No shame. Just anger, vengeance and the desire to live long enough to kill Odin. To destroy Asgard just like his 'father' had destroyed his faith in Truth, Honesty, Decency and about everything good in life. Life was vile. There was nothing worth to live for. Even his mother's professed love for him must be a lie. Everything is a lie … and they call him Silver Tongue…

Chaos is entering his sanity.

The unpleasant Chitauri experience was nothing compared to the Hell his mind is going to. He is going to be dissolved. This could not happen… What next? Re-Incarnation as a pitiful mortal from Midgard? Annihilation, then Humiliation.

There must be somewhere a way out. His thumb rubs the cold steel. Midgard holding prisoner Loki, prince and true heir of Jotunheimr. This could, cannot not be…

Midgard which knows naught of Frost Giants. Even if it knows of Asgardians. The green eyes open to an insane glee… Poor Thor, once again deceived by a mischievous young brother.

He has already a plan. The pesky Avengers will pay. Later. After Asgard….

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When the guards open the door all that is left from Loki is a forlorn muzzle.

Loki is gone. Gone from Asgard. Absent from Midgard. Hidden somewhere in the seven remaining realms…


	2. Introduction

This chapter sets some landscapes. The Prologue introduced one of the main characters . This Introduction reveals that not all is shiny and bright for Asgard. Odin has numerous enemies and the All-Father is more like an all-tyrant.

**Introduction.**

A long time ago.

_Vanaheimr._

Steppes. Moors. High hills and higher mountains. Grey skies. Water-falls. Riding horsemen. When night comes, men and women alike get together inside the yurts. There, music is played and tales of lore are told.

Vanirs unlike Aesirs bear not ill will to Jotuns. Vanirs believe that' the enemy of my enemy is my friend'. Thus, Vanirs engage in trade with the Frost giants. Vanirs do see through the ice armours, and see men like them. Almost like them.

Aesirs see Vanirs as rebels; barbarian rebels. And pagans. Vanirs refuse the rules set by the All-Father. Vanirs who live in tribes and clans vaguely united under Great Khan, worship the All-Mother. Vanirs approve of Midgard's many nations. Vanirs are if anything anarchists. They refuse to be bound to cities. They like to roam free in the vast expense of the limitless tundra. They laugh at the audacity of a single man calling himself the All-Father.

Jotuns are bewildered by the anarchist Vanirs but enjoy their tolerant eyes. Jotuns live like Jotuns; this is the way the All-Mother has always wanted her children to be. Free to be what you are. Not envious, not told to change. Be. Simply to be what you are. Needless to say, Jotuns are a lot friendlier with the carefree Vanirs than with the Asgardians. Needless to say. Vanirs know a lot more about Jotuns that Odin and his slaves will ever know or suspect.

Jotuns and Vanirs share the same love for Honour and a lot more things Aesirs would like to know but will not. Asgard hates the Jotuns and dislikes the Vanirs. Again and again, the Bifrost opens. Again and again, Odin's villainous boors, an infamous rabble of warriors try and raid the steppes to proclaim they won a war they never fought. As soon as the Rainbow Bridge shimmers in the distance, the Vanirs flee to the steppes and the Aesir boors find only settlements devoid of human activities. In the distance far way, too far from them, they see tantalizing glimpses of cavaliers. Soon enough a rain of deadly arrows pours on and they leave after burning the yurts and killing the cattle and the horses.

Interestingly, Jotuns feel they can get avenged by killing dumb animals. Like the Aesirs. Poor Vanirs who call themselves the Free Men despise Aesirs for killing innocent brutes. Aesirs rejoice in setting fire to the tundra. Woe to Asgard. All-Mother will avenge her children.

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_Jotunheimr._

Cold. Freezing cold. Mostly dark. Full of ice spires, cathedrals of snow and cloisters of subterranean cracks, all eager to let you to worship Death. Asgard hates this realm and calls its inhabitants monsters. Frost giants beg to differ.

One does not wage war; one does not engage deadly fights in outfits chosen to woo maidens. Frost giants wear armours and battle gears because they have no choice. If they look horrible to Odin's warriors, the same is said for the Aesirs. When seen through red eyes.

The Elders say that Aesirs and Jotuns are almost alike. Odin knows. Does he? The Aesirs only know the appearance of battling Giants. Aesirs are easily deceived by masks and disguises. What is underneath, they miss. They call the Jotuns shape-shifters. When all it takes is to remove the ice shield which transforms a frost youth into a mighty warrior. They say Jotuns have no gender or only one gender because they only see warriors engaging in war. Aesirs are blind and stupid.

Deep inside the snow, there are great halls, lighted by fountains of ices. Inside the snow halls, you will see who dwells in them. Noble knights, wise men, spirited youths … and sweet ladies. Naturally, Aesirs know naught of the snow maidens. Aesirs know about the warriors. The warriors only.

Maidens do not engage in wars. Maids are made to sing, dance, weave soft blankets of the finest snow and ladies are made to bear their lords offspring and raise children. Women do not grace battlefields. The monstrosity who is the Aesir Lady Sif does not dwell mercifully in Jotunheimr.

Maids are to be respected, wooed, cherished and protected. Protected from the vile Aesirs. Aesirs do not respect snow maidens. Old king Laufey has learnt the bitter lesson. Never to trust an Aesir. Never to trust Odin.

Inside the great frosted halls, children, maids and youths listen to the tales of yore sung by the skalds. A favourite tale is the sad story of Princess Farbauti .

A long time ago, Jotuns had entered into a truce with that monster of Asgard. Yes, the All-Father himself had poured words as light as sweet snowflakes, words of peace in the ears of the Jotun King of this particular time. Now you have to know, this king had two children. Twins. One was a boy, a prince. Laufey, heir of Jotunheimr. One was a girl. Farbauti, the most beautiful of snow maidens. Her skin had the most tender azurean blue and her eyes shone like rubies while her braids as dark as the darkest ice fissures of the darkest mountains reached the floor.

Because it was a truce, the first ever, Laufey allowed Odin to walk into his hall and see the real beauty of the Kingdom of the Jotuns. Odin saw the beauty, the riches … and noticed the gracious princess.

As you know, one can speak to a girl only after being approved by her menfolk. Only when one is vetted and allowed, one can reach to her hand and whisper sweet nothings.

Woe to the man who dishonours the maid. Woe to the maid who allows this knave of man, this lie-smith with his silver tongue to hold her hand, bed her and leave her heavy with child and no husband to show. Honour must be restored.

Once the child is born, he will be exposed to die in the temple as only Death will forgive the trespassing of the innocent's life. While the child will die, the longest, thinnest ice blade will pierce this wanton of a mother's shallow heart as only cruel Death can erase her shame. Said blade will be held by the man of the highest in honours of her kinfolk. As her lack of virtue shames he and his male bloodline and only her Death can repair his honour.

What happened is anybody guesses. The traitorous Aesir must have spoken to Farbauti; the vile Asgardian must have got entry to her bedchamber. What is known is that the next day Odin left and all too soon for all to see, Farbauti's belly got enlarged. The truce lived one night. And one night was all it took for the All-Father to impregnate the loveliest of all the ice maidens.

Laufey selected himself the blade his father would use. Farbauti was locked in the loneliest of dungeons. Yet she steadfastly refused to give out the name of her accomplice. The princess shed too many tears to live long after losing her maidenhood to an Aesir. And all the listeners of this tale of sorrows will shudder in unison for the tale reaches its climax.

She lived long enough to give birth, early way too early to a small child. A bastard son, grandson and nephew who was left to die on the steps of the Temple. The old king killed his daughter and followed her in death immediately as he knew he should have never allowed the All-Father to enter his Royal Hall. For upon seeing the new born child, the identity of the father was all too clear. The baby would have raven locks like his mother and in every aspect he was like any healthy Frost Giant Baby, albeit smaller for he was born too early. The Runes adorning his forehead, Runes did say he was claimed as Son to Odin!

Laufey, now king decided to show Asgard no Aesir, slave or king should be allowed to live after wreaking such grief on innocent Jotuns. It was war. War almost won through the Casket of Winters, a weapon devised by his father through his sister's tears (if the night is still young, the skald will tell you of Farbauti's tears and the secret behind it)… as the poet restarts the tale… war almost won but Fate was against it as it was Farbauti who had allowed Odin to lay by her and war was lost. The Casket of winters was taken away. But Fate was fair; Odin's bastard disappeared as he had never existed.

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When the old Jotun king died, Vanaheimr sent an arrow. However long it would take, one day, this arrow would find the heart of him who had shamed their allies.

Vanir horsemen and Jotun warriors share the same vigilant hate for Asgard. Vanirs and Jotuns sing tales written in different languages telling the same stories of defiled innocence and desire of revenge.

Odin does not fear them. What vengeance could result from the alliance of cowardly Vanirs and monstrous Jotuns?Ragnarork? All Asgard erupts in laughter. Ragnarork indeed….They all guffaw.

Asgard laughs. The Fates meanwhile weave the Future, which is always nearer than one believes it to be.


	3. Chapter One: The Pool of Wintery Sorrows

… we can begin the tale.

Chapter One

**The Pool of Wintery Sorrows**

Jotunheimr. Frosty land. Outside ice on inside ice, on top of rocks. Freezing winds smothering snowy land. Perpetual night skies. From an Asgardian point of view, a dismal landscape. For Jotuns, a land rich in many natural beauties. Ice seas, snowy mountains. Magical forests. Forests of icy spikes. Forests where dangerous beasts dwell. Hence, sceneries fit for hunting wondrous creatures which heads will later adorn one's hall.

The lone shadow is not bothered by adding its name to the long list of noble hunters. The shadow has left the forest where it started its long painful climb on the slope of this particularly steep mountain. A few instants ago, the meadows were empty and now a shadow crosses them. Where does it come from is anybody's guess. Maybe the green sparkles which added colour to the night skies could whisper the name of the realm it comes from.

Jotuns will not like it. Jotuns want to know who travels and set foot on their snowy land. Jotuns will get angry at this trespass. Nobody in his or her sane mind wants to anger a Frost Giant. Maybe the shadow is not anybody?

The shadow casts a shorter shadow on the ground. The shadow is small but nothing can be made of its shape as it is bundled in layers of furs upon furs. This gives it away. A Jotun would wear his ice armour to walk through the icy winds, the freezing blizzard. The shadow wears fur. It is therefore Asgardian, Dark-elfish or Vanir for these realms are inhabited by men and gods who play at being men or is it the opposite around?

The shadow stops. The climb is steep; the shadow needs to breathe. The shadow looks at a map which has appeared after its hands have written runes in the air. And the shadow with a long sigh starts climbing again. The crack is soon to be found. Inside the crack, the wind will stop. It will still be cold, but the shadow will be able to stop gasping for frozen air. And yes, the crack is close at hand.

Just a little bit of patience… it will be safe. Safe of the nuu-ru. The creature preys on lonely hunters. Preys on Jotuns. Preys on anything but itself. It mates every ten years and every ten years horrible cubs are born to horrible parents. Imagine a combination of Midgardian polar bears with a snout of a mammoth except it is an added mouth lined by thousands of sharp teeth and a tendency to use at the same time his two front legs plus a serpentine body. Claws end its paws and a whip of his tail can slice three Frost giants in one go. The shadow, the very lonely shadow stands no chance if it was to meet one. The shadow hurries toward the crack. Nuu-rus are the stuff of nightmares. Possibly. Nuu-rus have an enviable sense of smell despite the blizzard. The shadow is well aware it will smell enticing food to any nuu-ru passing by the ice fissure.

The shadow is lucky. It has reached the crack. It quickly removes the many layers which protected it from the cold, just keeping its backpack. Now that it can stop walking against the wind, it walks with a purpose downward, deep inside the crack. It still wears a coat and the hood still keeps its anonymity. It is not a Jotun, which we know. No ice armour. Maybe it is because it does not know the spell which dresses a Jotun youth into a fierce Frost Giant warrior?

Deep, deeper down the shaft of ice. There is a blue light which comes from a pool. As anything in Jotunheimr, it is covered in ice and it has hidden beauty. The blue light is tantalizing close but whatever magic it contains is out of reach protected by a thick layer of ice. The shadow who is kneeling by the bank of the pool has tried and tried again to access it without joy. It looks at scrolls it pulled out of its back pack.

Yes it holds old scrolls and the scroll read it does not like. The Casket of Winters is just that. Just a casket. What is important, significant is the winters bit. The strange blue fuel which gives power and strength to the casket and the shadow wants that power.

So it is it then. The shadow, the lonely shadow wants power. Such courageous acts as defying the snow storm, the steep climb, the howling winds and the monsters which prowl for such a dismal vulgar wish of riches and power?

The shadow jerks upright. A noise, a faint noise. Footfalls; somebody is walking inside the giant room which rooms the blue lighted pool. The shadow hides quickly behind a large boulder and watch… the earlier seen shadow. Both are clothed about the same winter gear. One is proud, princely even, another has the careless attitude of one ruled by no king.

Both are tall, though one is taller than the other.

The smaller shadow has not seen the other shadow; it walks purposely to the bank of the pool. Like the other shadow it kneels by the bank and because it is tired by the long walk, its breathing can be heard. Soft panting, stubborn one. Tired as it may be, it will take a sample of the pool of Sorrows , the pool of Winters as the Jotuns call it in the legendary tale.

Quickly because one never knows and Nuu-rus can show up at any time, it digs inside its protective gear and pulls out a very small jar. A jar? No, rather a small bottle and its gloved hand struggles to open it… and cannot. A sigh of disgust, the shadow bites into a glove and pulls it out.

Now we know more. This shadow is no Asgardian for its hand is blue and the scarf which is circling its head as to protect it from the cold air reveals more details. Under the hood, one does not see much, but the eyes … which are red. Could this shadow be a Jotun after all?

This shadow does not care. It pours something out of the bottle on the ice which covers the pool and … wonders… the ice melt and the shadow peers above it. What does the little one look at, look for? What does this shadow want to see from the reflection given by the pool…? What we know, is that this shadow fills the now empty bottle with the blue pulsating fluid and this simple action triggers another.

Action which may be have a secret meaning… we are not to know yet... as the tallest shadow jumps on the smaller and tries to grab the now full bottle. Each fighter is cautious as the bottle is still without lid and already the ice is coming back closing the access to the magical fluid. The bottle is precious; worlds can be destroyed with one single drop of what is inside it and the bottle has no lid on… yet.

The fighters do not waste time in words. The tall one has pulled a dagger but the smaller one's knee push it away in a vicious blow. One hood is removed. So we have it. Two Jotuns; two warriors who are not sons of Asgard. And they fight. The tall one is strong, stronger. Wily, wilier. But the smaller shadow is stubborn. It is its bottle, its magic which liberated the secret fluid. It is its spell which was successful and it is justice and truth which allow him to call the bottle his own. Justice does not always win. The smaller shadow struggles in vain. The taller one has won.

Maybe not, thinks a third shadow.

Worse, the winner has stopped using its blade since a long time. The winner is toying with the small shadow like a wolf toys with its victim or like a snake when it towers above it before striking. The stronger hand is crushing the weaker fingers and its owner is wincing biting into its lips but still trying to avoid acknowledging defeat even if the word is gnawing on his courageous heart.

Too bad the little shadow has the heart of a decent warrior. Nobody must live alive the crack and tell the tale that the pool has been partly depleted of its magic. The bottle is now secured away from the weakened grasp and the dagger is back in the taller shadow's hand. The end will be quick…

Red eyes confront each other's. The dagger is raised. The small shadow looks for an exit. Finds it though it is not really one.

The tall warrior has seen it. A fiery look for fight, then resignation followed then sheer fear. Fear not directed at him but at something above him. Both shadows roll away in the same direction, far from the lash of a very long toothed snout.

The Jotuns if they are Jotuns were so busy fighting they have missed the ever so soft crawling noise typical of a very hungry nuu-ru. A hungry and now angry nuu-ru. It wants its meal now and it wants the two hunters. Warriors. Whatever. It wants feeding.

In the room, the two fighters who were at each other's throat are now brothers in arms trying to avoid the lashes and the claws. Nuu-rus are monsters and both warriors are horrified at what they behold. The creature has circled them to the pool. It will swallow its preys alive. It will…

-not… it will not do such thing yet. The smaller blue hand grasps the bigger one and pulls it; both run over the ice pool to a black hole. Above the pool but reachable, there is a small crack … if they run quick enough, they can reach its wall, climb and crawl into it and pray whatever god there is to escape the deadly snout like they have escaped its claws. They crawl inside as fast as they can; the small warrior leading the way. To a bigger room and this is it. This is it. The time has come to know if they are deep, so deep inside the crack a nuu-ru snout has to give up and not circle one's arm, head or leg and pull it back to its mouth and claws.

Both pairs of desperate red eyes are looking at the very long tentacle of a snout coming after them. It is hesitating and... It latches itself onto the nearest available prey. The bigger prey. The tall shadow's closest ankle and it pulls it. The tall shadow is a warrior, it resists; it digs its dagger in the walls but it feels the pull and its ankle is howling murder. Imagine rows and rows of toothed bracelets entering your skin and sucking the blood out for each tooth is matched by a smaller sucking hole of a mouth.

It is sheer torture and the warrior's hand is now weakening. Something is going to snap. And it is snapping. The dagger. The tentacle pulls more when it stops.

Something feels like… teeth. But how it is possible? The toothed snout is actually feeling the pain of being bitten. By very small teeth, but it hurts. And it is not the end. A dagger, a broken dagger is coming to the rescue of the small jaws. The snout is now bloodied and hurt; it pulls out without any prey to feast on and its revenge will come all too soon. But the reprieve is welcome for the two shadows inside the cave of the thin long crack.

Both hoods have been pushed away and two sets of red eyes are discovering the identity of its enemy. The taller shadow we know it to be probably a Jotun. Red eyes, blue skin, raven lanky locks and strange symbols on its forehead proclaim it to be a Jotun warrior.

The smaller shadow sports also a blue skin and a pair of red eyes. Here stops the resemblance. The hair is fiery red and curly.

As for the face, only the upper part is seen. It says it belongs to a clan which only reveals his entirety to his equal. His Vanir equals. Jotuns look like Vanirs. Jotuns show their faces. Vanirs hide it. It belongs to the Khanate to decide if they can show themselves. Male like female Vanirs are just as shy or reluctant,

We have it a tall Jotun. Tall, really? And a shorter Vanir. One has stolen a bottle to another; one has saved another's life. So far.

_- Give me the dagger. Nuu-rus are venomous. Let me expel the venom!_

_- Biting into a snout is a healthy exercise?_

The Vanir reaches for his backpack, retrieving a rather dirty looking rag.

_- Put it around your ankle where it dug into your flesh. It is soaked with Ayaahee's piss. Smelly but then most medicinal drugs which save one's life are smelly_

_- How thoughtful of you. You try to kill me then you save my life_

_- 'YOU' tried to kill me; 'I' saved your pitiful life, Jotun. Had you been one of Odin's accursed brood, I would have let you be eaten alive!_

The Vanir stops then starts again as an afterthought.

_- … And I would have made a song of it!_

_- Something tells me it is coming back…_

The sounds of hard claws biting inside the ice are clear. The monster, upon finding it cannot pull its preys out is digging inside their icy refuge. If the prey does not come to the nuu-ru, the nuu-ru will claw its access to his un-compliant victims. The Vanir and Jotun must find an exit. Now.

_- Your scented dressing will have to wait. We need to get out._

_- There is a portal. Near. Not the one I used in the forest. The runes say it is not very reliable..._

_- Whereas Death through a toothed snout is._

_- Your wound needs attending._

_- Our funeral pyre will be attended soon enough if we do not leave this frozen cage._

The smooth talking Jotun is wasting his irony on the smaller Vanir. But the free-man accepts it.

_- How come Vanirs bite into Nuu-rus without side effects?_

_- Vanirs think ahead and prepare any journey to Jotunheimr by drinking protective potions beforehand. Vanirs think. Unlike stupid Jotuns who rely on sheer strength. Give me back the bottle_

_- No._

Vanirs and Jotuns can get along. So much. Soon, they will stop worrying about getting along. When it devours them, the Nuu-ru will get them rid of the problem.

The smaller warrior pulls again the map.

- The portal is near. But I do not have enough magic for two.

- Allow me to contribute.

Jotun magic is certainly crude compared to Odin's magic; it is crude for sure when it stands shoulder to shoulder to Vanir art. That is what Vanirs think. The Vanir raised an eyebrow at this particular Jotun's type of magic. But it works. Both warriors extend their fingers and slowly the ice gives way and reveals rock with more cracks and they rush in it. They would rush if the Jotun did not stagger. The venom is acting fast. The Jotun's notoriously cold skin is now colder. If he was a Vanir, he would be boiling and if ice could sweat… well ice does sweat as beads of it are rolling on his forehead. But the tall man is a Jotun. His race is stubborn. His leg is begging to stop running and he still runs. Away from the creature which wants to rejoice on his flesh.

In the distance, they can now see the night skies; they are almost out of the mountain. The beast is close though. They are out and the Jotun stumbles. He can't help but see the situation has not improved. They were trapped inside a crack and now, they are trapped on a small balcony of ice and rocks above the mother of all cliffs. And the Vanir is now insane…

Insane. Who would be humming a song about dwarves and necklaces? But a stupid, stupid Vanir. Said Vanir pulls out a small piece of wood from his backpack. The Jotun's red eyes could kill if they would because this Vanir is insane and demented. Behind the scarf circling the lower half of his face, the Vanir is clearly broadly smiling.

_- Do you want to snowboard with me?_

_- Do I have_ a choice?

Both men, much too close for their masculinity holding each other waist, after stepping on the small wooden board have jumped from the balcony overlooking the very steep cliff. Just in time as the nuu-ru had finally reached said balcony. Its jaws bite into the air, while much downward a small Vanir warrior wizard pronounces the runes to open a portal which may be or not broken. Death this way is better than inside a nuu-ru's stomach.

_- Vanaheimr, this child is calling you home!_

The snow, the ice, the rocks are disappearing. It is space and the two men see the stars and the galaxies changing shape. It may not be as elegant as the Bifrost but it works fine.

The Vanir is almost home as for the Jotun… well the Jotun will be shown another portal to go home. Once he has given back the bottle. The Jotun feels sick and disgusted to be so close to another man. Even if this warrior is a Vanir and does not qualify as a man by Jotunheimr's standards. By any standards!

And all gets black.


	4. Chapter 2 The forest

Chapter two

A new landscape.

At first all is black. All too soon, the two warriors, unlikely companions to a journey through the nine realms, are able to figure the itinerary which the misshapen portal is taking. The Vanir would like to go home. The Jotun is happy with any realm as long as it is not Asgard.

Yggdrasil Express does not offer many options.

Niflheimr is colder than Jotunheimr and belongs to Hela. A private hell for … Hell. Not really the place to visit when one is a Vanir with a song on his lips. Muspellsheimr is the great fire where Black Surtur dwells. These two realms are not welcoming to gods, giants frosted or not; not welcoming at all to men and elves alike.

Asgard and Vanaheimr hail of Gods abodes. Aesir are gods… so they say. Vanaheimr has no gods. But one and only Goddess. Aesirs and Jotuns do not approve of this flight of fancy. Elves and dwarves could not care less. Mind you, Vanaheimr is populated by rebels who refuse to be gods since gods cannot lose war and Odin won. If they want to worship a female, it is their problem!

The losers who are not gods are elusive to woo. Odin has opened the doors of his golden city hoping to see it flocked by admiring, vanquished and subdued Vanirs. Vanirs do not attack anymore… Vanirs ignore Asgard. Vanirs, true gods who pretend to live like men, who pretend to be simple, mortal men, achieve what Odin cannot despite being the winner. Vanaheimr lives in peace. Unlike Asgard always worried about a new outbreak of war.

Asgard might like to put its hands on the two travellers but the portal does not stop. Heimdall all but sees a flash and wonders if a comet has not blinded him for a few instants…

Sadly for the Vanir traveller, the portal does not stop to let him walk back home. The portal ignores Vanaheimr.

Could it be Midgard? No, then as it cannot be Jotunheimr they left, it must be Alfheimr? Because the options are getting dire: just one more stop. After that, it is Hel which it signifies that the portal was so broken they must have died during the journey or it is….

Shit.

Svartalfaheimr. Land of the dark elves; realm of dwarves. Trolls country…

Shit. Shit. Shit!

It means they are still alive. It means that the Jotun is going to be exposed to unbearable warmth and shiny suns; it means they are in danger to be held at ransom. Both of them.

Laufey refused an alliance against Odin because the Jotun wanted the glory to have crushed Asgard's finest to be his and his only. Njord, Great Khan to the Vanirs has taken to his horse and shamed by his defeat rode away never to be seen again. The council of viziers which rules in his absence says they cannot commit until the Khan comes back.

In truth, the Jotuns fight on their own and the Vanirs play at hide and seek. While the Dark Elves mop for a united front against Odin. In short, a lost Vanir and a lost Jotun are at risk of paying with their dear lives the flat refusal of their leaders to fight Odin along the dark elves.

The Jotuns are reluctant to call friend elves all too keen to be cowards on the battlefields. As for Vanirs, the freemen refuse to enter into what looks like an allegiance with their leader Malekith the Accursed. The ex-gods have their dignity. A courageous Jotun and his stubborn Vanir companion will pay for such disregard of Lord Malekith.

All of this is worrying and the light is blinding. Blinding and wet. Wet. Wet! Wet?

The Jotun covers his eyes from the suns which shine through the thick green foliage. This explains the light but why wet? The skies are calm and are not promising monsoon. Yet again, a raindrop again and again falls on his blue-skinned face.

Finally! His Highness is waking up. By Njord the Great, I was going to worry I would have to…

A vice grip seizes the Vanir's neck and pushes it away. The Jotun, finally rid of his over-talkative companion takes a disinterested look at the surroundings. A tropical forest. Svartalfaheimr, it is.

Give me your map

Which map?

The map.

The Jotun is angry. Yet it speaks like a great cat purrs. Until it jumps on you and kills.

Give me the map… the portals map.

The Vanir seems disinclined to obey. Rather he digs in his backpack, in his pockets.

Err… it would seem the map fell off when I took the snowboard out.

The Jotun would like to have eyes that kill which he does not have. He has rudimentary Jotun magic but not eyes that kill. And he deplores the fact.

We shall have to walk to the nearest interface.

Yes.

It says a lot when the chirpy Vanir becomes monosyllabic. It says a lot about the Jotun when he tries to put weight on his wounded leg and discovers it lamentably weak and unmistakably painful. The Vanir speech impairment disappears.

When the portal opened, you had lost consciousness. You were literally a… a frozen rock. If rocks could be more frozen than they already are in your benighted realm. Frozen which translate in my realm by running a high fever, delirious, moaning, in pain and fit to boil a kreezer's egg by simply touching it. I tried to walk you, drag you, carry you to the closest interface but you are way too heavy for me. I know some magic… but I am no trained wizard.

While the Vanir explains why the Jotun must have lost conscience for what sounds like two days… the Jotun takes a look at his surroundings. The Vanir has removed his winter coat and now ports the longue sleeveless leather jacket typical of a Steppes man. Being less dressed does not imply being underdressed. The facial veil remains and the hood is back in place except it shows a pair of large ear bangles. The amber curls are nowhere to be seen…

I had to remove your boot and cut open every wound pustule, suck up the venom and spit it away. I did not know Jotuns could survive such injuries. .. Whatever you made it, I pronounced a few healing runes, dressed your leg, found some water. The All-Mother must be protecting us. I could not boil the water as I could not light a fire and give away our presence to those bitches of dark elves; I cleaned your wounds, got you to swallow some water and at long last managed to bring you back from the dead.

The Jotun's red eyes do not show the urge to express thankfulness. The red eyes scan his leg; his fingers extend and slowly the angry wounds start to heal.

Some would say thank you.

Some would. Some say you did no more but what is due.

Fucking Jotuns and their fucking pride. I saved your fucking life twice, if not thrice. Give me back the bottle.

No.

The irate smaller warrior throws himself at the taller Jotun. Gone is the care for the wounded man. The bottle must be given back. The Jotun stands his ground. Worse, the Jotun's wounded leg slides behind the Vanir's shorter limb. It throws it off balance and the Vanir falls. And the Jotun falls atop of him. The Vanir's hands could look as well as claws which they are not as they try to push away, wound, scratch, rip and tear at the same time. The Jotun mercilessly is holding them pulling them apart away from his chest, his face. Humiliation for the Vanir, One single Jotun hand is now holding his wrists. Worst is to come. The free right hand is attacking the Vanir's hood, the Vanir veil and this is unbearable. Nobody but an equal can see his full facial feature.

A Jotun is just a giant; a Jotun is not a god, not a man. Not a Vanir. Both are warriors. The Jotun is a Bloody Frost giant and the Vanir is an apoplectic angry man.

Thought so.

I shall kill you.

Next time, do not pull your travelling companion too close. Jotuns may be as thick as Odin's eldest son. Still, they do not stand Vanir insults.

I will kill you. Get off the veil.

Dark elves dislike Vanirs but they hate Jotuns. They consider my people as traitors. If you have an extra veil, I can pass for a tall… taller than usual Vanir. All I need is to do is to fade away my facial markings

It hurts the Vanir warrior but the Jotun man has a point. Blessed All-Mother is; maybe they can pass as two Vanirs hunters accidentally fallen to the Realm of the Dark Elves, there is hope. And it is not a lie. Their arrival was not planned!

The elves will not suspect a Jotun warrior as they will not expect Jotuns to put on their ice armour in this very warm realm. The Vanir allows, one should say humour the Jotun to create the illusion of a clear forehead. He only raises his voice when her new Vanir companion slides a Jotun dagger under his belt.

If you refrain from getting too personal with the dark elves, they will not suspect you for what you truly are. Now we walk to the nearest interface.

My equerry would do himself a world of good as not to speak before his master.

It seems his decision to travel to Jotunheimr is a never ending journey through humiliations. Well, feeling somehow responsible for the unsuccessful portal, the Vanir digs some more in his bag and hands a pair of earrings.

If you are a master, you need runic earpieces. And be careful…

The Jotun trims the fancy pieces to a more basic model. He is a man and earrings clearly fashioned by some loving sister are not his taste.

Eh! It's mine.

You have lost the bottle, you have lost the fight and you have lost the right to call these vulgar earrings yours.

The pieces adorn now the Jotun's ears.

Say I pretend to be your young brother. I do not like being an equerry.

Say I use your veil like a muzzle and you shut up?

The Jotun starts walking at his usual stride. Followed by the small Vanir.

If we are captured… let me do the talking. We are hunting keezers and we fell through a portal near a patch of blue-star flowers in bloom. These flowers are known to have strange properties. And your clan… I mean our clan is the Proud Bow… yes the Proud Bow. Your name is Osyn, the Lord Osyn of the Clan of the Proud Bow. And…

You are the muzzled page of my Lordship. I shall call you Chirpy!

Chirpy has felt on his face like leather straps gagging him. Not long enough to show; long enough to be fearful of this Jotun who behaves like he was Old Laufey's kinsman. They walk toward the portal in the dense forest. They do not speak. Too busy they are climbing over fallen, rotten tree roots, branches and trunks. They also avoid stumbling on countless, myriads of creepers. Yet they go on accompanied by the sounds of the flying fauna and hopefully only the flying fauna of the tropical forest. Svartalfaheimr does not boast of Nuu-rus; its predators are smaller. They are smaller; they kill just as well.

They are hot and sweaty. The new Vanir misses his cold realm. And his leg has started to hurt again. Vanir medicine seems to be not so up to scratch. The tall hunter starts to stumble, and his vision gets blurry by instants…

We… You need to rest. I wonder if the chemicals in the venom have not altered during our little junketing trip through Yggdrasil. Let us stop or you are going to fall and break…. Your… CAREFUL! … GREAT. Just what we needed!

Just shut up, brother and help me sit on that trunk.

The smaller Vanir turns around the tall one. He is full of reproach, concerns and officiousness. He is the epitome of young brothers who are a pain in the neck. Over cautious, over-enthusiastic and all too prone to display knowledge well above their age, they should be wise to hide.

I told you. You are too tired and some venom is still running in your blood. Look at you; you have fallen and I am sure you must have broken a limb…. Naturally, told you so. Look at that sprain and that bruise. I am having no more of this nonsense. We…

…sshhh!

…sshhh?

The muzzle is now firmly on the little Vanir and his silencing obliges him to listen at his 'master' is referring at.

The silence. The forest is now totally silent.

And when sound returns, it is with the whoosh of a large net thrown over the two Vanirs.


	5. Chapter 5

I apologize to my readers, but I have left for too long this story. And it must end there.

Now, before you all get angry at me letting you down.

I am not letting you down.

Thor: the Dark World will start on the 08.11.2013.

Hence, I am going to give you my reading of what is to come.

Expect: Malekith, Sif and the Warriors Three. And Jane Foster.

The Rightful One did allow me to find the direction where to take Loki. Let it be clear: there will be Trolls, Bilgesnipes and you will be told the real connection between Loki, Sleipnir and Odin.

And Thanos will be playing the long game.


End file.
